Ungewon
by Dani Carip
Summary: A couple hours in a very unusual day of Glitch's life. Includes waltzing, "our airplanes are different," dinner, shiny medals, and lots of smiling. Glitch/OC. I wish that stood for "oligarchy curmudgeon," but no such luck. Tried my best anyways :D


**Author's Note: **Hey! :D I've been on a Tin Man (read: Glitch) kick for the past couple of days, and thought it was about time to give his voice a try. Unfortunately, the conversation I wanted him to have didn't really work with any of the canon characters, so I whipped up Ilsa. Normally I avoid writing OCs (since I don't tend to _read_ OCs), but Ilsa fell together pretty well without borrowing too much of my own voice. Anyways, enjoy!

***

"Nothing like a summer's day in Finaqua," Glitch sighed blissfully.

"Nothing at all," DG agreed for the fifth time, and waved a hand over his eyes. "You're glitching again."

"Oh!" The shadow jolted him, and he scrambled to his feet.

"You're jittery today."

"Heh, right again, DG," he laughed nervously. "It's this zipper, see, soaks up the sun like a…."

After a moment of concentration a relaxed grin lit his face. Hands on hips, he gazed contentedly out across the shimmering lakes.

"Like a…?" DG prompted, without much hope.

"I'd like to go sit in the shade," Glitch decided, smiling down at the girl. "I'll catch you later at the ball."

"It's just a dinner," DG said. "No dancing."

"No dancing _planned_," he corrected, poking her playfully in the shoulder.

"See you there, Glitch," she grinned.

He laughed again, easily now, and shambled through the tall grass towards the villa. DG glanced up in time to see him heave open the southern doors and slip inside.

"'West is best,'" she grimaced. "Thought you'd remember if it rhymed, but nope. Not a chance."

She slung a pebble along the water's surface.

***

"West is best," he mumbled, blinking in the darkness. "West, west, west…which way is west? Not this way, that's for sure. But I'll find a way."

He fumbled for a lampswitch, but found a curtain cord instead. With a triumphant yank, silvery light was free to filter through the tall window, a kaleidoscope of pale green glass. Giddily, he twirled in a small circle—and was punched in the gut.

He gaped at the wall opposite the window, eyes flickering in all directions. Clustered together—overlapping here, crooked there—were thirty-two portraits of Ambrose.

"Way to go," Glitch wheezed.

He stumbled forwards, brushed his fingers across the rippled acrylics and pastels. He'd seen them all before, he just…he hadn't seen them _today_.

"Makes all the difference, really."

With a long sigh, he folded down onto the floor, sitting cross-legged and gazing up at the many Ambrose. There was only one picture of him by himself; it was as stately as any of the others, but here he wore a cobalt coat and only one medal, a gold marble hung on a ribbon of many different greens. Stretching out behind him was a blurry grey veranda, graced by two azure pillars, the noble symbol of the—

"Scientific Institute of Alchemy!" Glitch exclaimed, pointing at his painted self victoriously. His brow furrowed. "Or was it the Alchemical Institute of Science?"

Ambrose offered no clarification.

"Any road, that was the very start of it all, wasn't it? My dramatic entrance into the OZ! I didn't keep the audience waiting either, I must've only been…only been."

Glitch stuttered to a halt, lurched upwards to examine the portrait closely. Every line around the mouth and brow, every mole, even the dark swoops beneath the eyes…all these he could trace on his face now.

"But that was forever ago," he whispered.

Gripped by a strange panic, he staggered back and scanned the portraits. Towards the ceiling the queen was a young lady, slight and winsome. But she grew and grew and grew, now a woman with two rosy children, who in turn blossomed into pale, bright girls. Twice Ahamo was pictured, markedly greyer in his second appearance.

And watching over them, a gloved hand protectively resting on the throne or Azkadee's shoulder, was Ambrose, never changing from the ceiling to the floor.

"Big change now, though, huh?" Glitch swallowed; his fingers fluttered over the cooling zipper, but it wasn't a comfort and he knew it. "Noggin might be empty but my mug is still the same."

He grumbled unhappily and shifted from foot to foot.

"Maybe I'm imagining it! Can't trust my half-a-brain as far as I could throw it!" Glitch pursed his lips. "Pretty far, actually. Thirty feet on a good day?"

With a sharp nod he turned on his heel and strode back the way he came, determined to find a second opinion, but at that moment, the doors at the other end of the room swung open, screeching along the stone floors. He spun on his heel again and peered into the gloom. A shadow slowly rounded into a figure as its footsteps rang out louder and louder.

"What do you need advice from me for? Believe me, I'm no Mystic Man!" Glitch chuckled, then shuddered at the memory. "Bleh. Might be better off with me, after all."

The footsteps ceased, and the figure hesitated at the edge of the window's sunbeam.

"How do you know I need advice?"

Glitch blushed at the woman's voice; flustered, he scrabbled for an explanation.

"Oh, nothing really. Or no 'how.' But not know-how. Just luck, I suppose! That's me, lucky as the day is long!" He nodded and tried to smile. "That's me, lucky as the day is long! That's me—"

"It is you, huh."

She stepped out of the shadows.

"…lucky," Glitch finished, the wind knocked out of him once more.

A patchwork of watery emeralds drifted across her, nestled in her ropy russet hair and pooled on top of her cheeks among the,

"Freckles," Glitch smiled.

"Some things don't change, then," she muttered. "You always were on about my freckles."

Eyebrows raised, Glitch watched happily as she crossed her arms and stepped a little closer.

"Just because you're made of alabaster doesn't mean the rest of us have to hide in the shade, too," she continued. "Not that you weren't keen to be out there on the field, but I still think you were in more conference halls and laboratories than is strictly healthy."

She glanced sharply up at him, and then her face opened into a beaming smile, bright if a little crooked.

"Listen to me nattering on!"

"Okay."

"What?"

"You told me to…nevermind," Glitch laughed lightly and swayed from side to side. "You look awful familiar, you know."

Her smile vanished and Glitch immediately regretted his remark.

"No, no, wait! I can remember, I know I can!"

"Don't worry yourself, I shouldn't even be here…"

"Elsa!"

"…I just wanted to pretend—"

Glitch grinned, overcome with pride; she didn't smile, but she did come out of her little darkness.

"Ilsa," she murmured. "Same difference."

"Ilsa with freckles," Glitch said, fidgeting with his vest. "Ilsa with freckles who keeps leaving the screen door unlocked. Ilsa, who's gonna fly across the OZ someday. Ilsa and Ambrose, spotted outside of the Muglug Café."

"You remember!" Ilsa shouted, a little louder than Glitch suspected she meant to.

"Sort of," he groaned, wringing his hands. "How are you gonna fly? And why were we...?

"By luftnave!" Ilsa said hurriedly. "A boat in the clouds. Over a decade now and I still haven't perfected it. You were helping me with the engine, but then, you know."

She ran a finger along the part in her hair. Glitch nodded.

"You must have been a great inventor!" he said cheerfully. "We were colleagues, then? Two peas in a pod! With other peas, I guess. Lots of peas per pod, I guess, bit of a poor pod if it's only got two peas."

"Two peas was fine by me."

She smirked and looked up at him again, just looking at his face. Glitch glanced away.

"That was a tabloid headline, you know, about the Muglug Café. They were always on about us, even the big ones in Central City. Are they, aren't they, that sort of deal."

"Were we?" A tinge of hope had squirmed into the question.

Without hesitation, she leaned in and held his hand in her own. "Yeah."

Glitch's heart soared. Maybe it was testing the luftnave, he thought. And what a fantastic, lovely, magnificent machine it was.

"Ilsa who always tries to lead during the waltz," he said, lifting their clasped hands and placing one on her waist. She smiled again, shining even brighter. "Even though she's a head shorter than me, doll."

They whirled up and down the hall, footsteps striking the floor and laughter floating to the ceiling.

***

Ilsa giggled as they collapsed into a heap beneath the window.

"You haven't forgotten how to dance, that's for sure!"

"Of course not! Rhythm comes directly from _the soul_," he asserted; but the last two words had been a chorus. He squinted at her, nose crinkled incredulously. "How do you know about that?"

"You don't remember?" He shook his head and she sighed in relief. "Thank goodness! My one attempt at poetry is lost to the past, and good riddance."

"I'm sure it was the bee's knees," Glitch said, playfully bumping into her.

She remained still.

"So that's why you were in here."

Concerned and befuddled, Glitch followed her gaze. The portraits.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Do you…was he better? Ambrose, I mean. Do you wish I was him?"

Ilsa rolled her head along the wall to rest on his shoulder.

"So you're not Ambrose? That's big personality to take out of a person."

"She managed it," Glitch said sadly. "I'm useless now. Happy, sure, but smart, no way. That's all…"

He waved his hands and breathed, "Poof."

"I'm not so sure. You're still the Ambrose I knew, even if you're not the one everyone else was familiar with. Big, hoity-toity—"

"Hey!"

"I'm just sayin'! You didn't have to wear those medals _all_ the time."

"They were shiny, alright?" His voice softened. "But I'm glad I'm still him to you."

"I hear they call you Glitch nowadays. I kinda like it."

He nodded gently, and they sat in silence for a few long minutes. Even if his heart was elsewhere, Glitch felt his half-a-brain fretting over a backlog of questions. They could wait.

Ambrose glared at him through painted eyes.

"No, they can't!"

Ilsa scooted away from him, startled.

"Can't what? Call you Glitch?"

"Wait! The questions, they can't…." He shut his mouth firmly and shook his head. "Sorry, I'm sorry. It's just, I didn't come here on purpose. I got lost and wandered in and there I was!"

He waved an arm desperately at the portraits.

"But not just me, _really_ me." Glitch grasped her shoulders firmly and turned her towards the opposite wall. "Look at them, and look at me."

His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.

"_I'm just the same!_"

Ilsa, who had been peering intently, suddenly relaxed and dropped back against the wall, giggling again.

"Of course you're just the same! I mean, why would you change?"

Glitch shrugged. "Because everybody else does?!"

"Except me. Think back, Muglug Café and all, and I bet you I look," she dropped her voice mockingly, "_just the same._"

He thought back. He gasped theatrically.

"See?" she grinned.

"But why?"

She looked at him sideways, as if this would lift some veil. "Glitch, you don't think you're human, do you?"

He shrugged again.

"Good heavens," Ilsa scowled. "She really did do a number on you."

She shifted around to face him properly.

"You and me and loads of other people in the OZ, we're ungewon."

"Ungewon?"

"Yep. A race from the valleys in the west."

"West is best," Glitch grinned absently.

"I suppose so."

"Are we very different from humans? I mean, I've got legs and arms and ears and all that." He tried to be subtle in checking that this was, in fact, true.

"Not so different, no." She coughed uncomfortably. "Just immortal."

"What? No!"

"So far, anyways," Ilsa amended. "What a thing to forget! How did you think you survived the whole 'no more brain for you' deal?"

"I just…I don't," he sputtered. "Cain said plenty of criminals are zipperheads! Not that I'm a criminal."

Ilsa shook her head. "They never last more than three months. Crazy or dead, they're gone by then."

"Oh."

She patted him on the back. "I'm glad you're ungewon. Heck, I'm glad _I'm _ungewon."

"Suppose so." Glitch tore his gaze away from Ambrose's. "Funny ol' conversation, this has been. The whole thing."

"Yeah, well, you'll have a good appetite for dinner."

She fiddled with a complicated copper device strung around her wrist.

"Whichhhh should be in about five minutes."

A huge smile stretched across Glitch's face.

"What?"

"I'll race you there."

***

They clambered into their seats at the same time, but Ilsa won on account of whipping out a napkin on her way down.

"I think I deserve bonus points for not sending my chair squealing along the poor floorboards," Glitch said very seriously.

"Absolutely! Sixty-three points for you."

"And that makes it?"

"Sixty-three to sixty-four. I win."

As Glitch laughed a delicate note rang out across the table, the sound of a spoon gently rapped against a very expensive glass. It was an exceedingly effective way to bring Glitch and Ilsa's attention to the fact that they were acting like six-year-olds at a table not only shared by the entirety of the OZian royal family, but also five prestigious foreign ministers.

"Not that I mind the extra company," DG said, spoon still in hand, "but who's your friend?"

The queen stared at DG.

"You must have been too young to remember," she said, her expression softening. "This is Ilsa, a…yes, a friend of Ambrose. I'm afraid I wouldn't have thought to invite you, dear, but I am glad to see you again."

"And you, milady," Ilsa replied, bowing her head slightly; the freckles had become lost in a crimson blush.

"You weren't invited?" Glitch whispered, leaning close to her.

"No!" she hissed, squirming anxiously in her chair.

"Why did you come? There's not even dancing! Planned, that is. You never know, might be lucky."

"Why did I…?" she repeated, baffled. "Why do you think, hoity-toity?"

"Really!" he said, affronted, but as the answer dawned on him, he bit his lip in delight. "You came to see me!"

"Yes! I meant to meet you _here_, pretend to be the really important engineer I am and just happen to start talking with you. But no, I had to get cold feet, and then wandering feet, and then lost!"

"Directionally challenged."

"What?"

"You have to stay positive. Never say never. Or lost."

The note wavered in the air again. They raised their heads, and DG waved merrily.

"Whatever you lovebirds are talking about, I'm sure it can wait until after dinner," she said, but then herself leaned in conspiratorially. "Plus you're confusing our ministers."

Glitch nodded hurriedly and Ilsa sat back in her chair. He looked over at her as she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply; with a small smile, he reached out and held her hand, squeezed it slightly. She opened one eye to look at him.

"It's just like DG said," he whispered, hiding his voice underneath that of the man announcing the menu. "Luftnaves and valleys and muglug and waltzing and peapods, a whole big world full of those things, it's all ours."

Ilsa began to smile, waiting for him to finish.

"Right after we clean our plates, that is."

Menu-man's voice couldn't cover her laughter, and Glitch was glad of it, too.


End file.
